


Absent Friends

by localfreak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is the angel of lgbtq, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Gen, LGBTQ Themes, London, Lonely Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oscar Wilde Trials, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to Oscar Wilde, Robbie Ross needs a hug, Soho 1895
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:54:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localfreak/pseuds/localfreak
Summary: After a terrible verdict, following the worst months of his life, one man leaves the public gallery and seeks sanctuary in a little Soho bookshop.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 86





	Absent Friends

25th May, 1895, London. 

They were following him. He was quite aware of it as he left the the courts and ducked into the crowded streets. He had hoped, with the furore by the steps, to slip away and his heart pounded painfully in his ribcage. 

He bit the inside of his cheek as he picked up the pace, dismayed to hear unpleasent mutterings burgeoning into bolder speech. 'It's him you know, one of them.' 'Just come from the gallery now.' 'Bound to be, did you see his face.' 

It would not take much for propiety to fail and his assailants recruit a crowd. Equally, it would not do for him to slow down or break into a run. He did not dare slip along side streets and courtyards. If they were to attack him, let it be on a public street and pray that some were held back by the visibility. 

The first kiss noise was obscene and he knew then they would not give up the chase. He felt his shoulders tense and kept walking. He would not turn, let them strike the first blow if they must but he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his face.  
But he could not walk forever. Some of the braver ones were shouting at him now. 

'Darling, Mr Ross is that you?'

'Oh sweetheart do you need a new 'kerchief to cry into?'

'Don't mind us, madam, but you know he's one of them'

'Mary Ann? Mary Ann Ross? Why don't you turn around when I'm talking to you?'

He could not bring this back to his lodging. Couldn't let them know where he lived. And friends? So few of them left he felt quite frantic as he reached Tottenham Court. Perhaps the little church? Would they dare to follow him in there?

All his life, Robbie had known these bullies, but his throat was so tight with unwept tears he felt as if they were drowning him already.  
An arm reached out from a door and suddenly hauled him sideway as if he weighed nothing. It was almost as if he had blinked and found himself transported inside, the door closed behind him. He could hear the malevolent voices, now confused, muttering as they passed by as if he had- truly- disappeared into thin air. 

It was only now Robbie realised where he was, the musty smell of the books a comforting one as he felt his breathing ease and the pain in his throat return to a dull, sorrowful ache. 

"Ezra, I thought you'd be in Paris by now." 

Mr Ezra Fell, believed (by Robbie at least) to be some great, great nephew of the original A. Z. Fell whose name remained immortalised on the sign outside, only gave Robbie a sad, compassionate little smile, and rubbed his hands along the fabric of his pale waistcoat. 

"Oh, no. Hopefully it won't come to that. Please, Robbie, come through and have a cup of tea, won't you?"

"The shop-"

"Is quite definitely closed," Aziraphale said firmly. "Except, of course, to friends."

Robbie followed him through to the tiny backroom behind the counter, which was cluttered with old books and binding equipment along with a rather delicate teapot with cups laid out for two. 

"I - have you heard the verdict?" Robbie asked, bleakly as Fell pushed a hot cup of tea into his hands. 

"I- that is to say, I think from your face I know it." Aziraphale poured his own cup of tea and held it delicately, gazing sadly into its depths.

"He looked- oh Ezra - he looked so terrible standing there, so awfully heartbroken and so brave as well as the public gallery started shouting and they led him away. The judge said some terrible things too-" Overcome, at last, Robbie finally felt that awful knot in his throat release as the tears began to fall in earnest. He put his cup down on the table and covered his face. "Hard labour, oh God it will kill him, you know that, it will kill him. No books, no air, no - he will be locked away from all of those he loves and I can't bear it! I just can't-"

Aziraphale's arms came around the weeping man as Robbie, finally, let himself cry. 

Robbie was not a man who cried easily, or often. It was something he admired in others. Ocsar would weep unashamed tears as he beheld a beautiful piece of art, or heard a particularly sublime piece of music. Robbie, who loved art and music and poetry deeply, had still never been moved to tears by even the most transporting piece he beheld. In many ways, the pieces he hoarded close to his heart, cried for him where he could not. He had, in darker moments, wondered if the year following the Fountain Incident had somehow damaged his tear-ducts. The sensation of water in his eyes, around his throat and burning his lungs had somehow purged him of the ability. Now, he knew that was not the case. He could still cry, but it was a cold, pitiless knowledge he could well have done without. 

He cried noisily, grotesquely, clutching his handkerchief and pressed tightly to the warm, soothing weight of Aziraphale's waistcoat. When he, finally, felt himself wrung out and sensible enough to be embarrased and move away, he found an arm tight around him, muttering soothingly. 

"It's all right, it's nothing to be ashamed of." And when he looked up he saw, too, that his friends eyes were bright with tears, some escaping and running unchecked down his soft cheeks. Aziraphale had never looked more like Oscar than in that moment and Robbie managed, if not a smile, then to ease back with a gentleness. He took the other's arm as it loosened from his shoulders and pressed a kiss to Aziraphale's knuckles.

"You are a brave soul, Robbie Ross." Aziraphale told him, kissing his cheek chastely. "And a better friend. Oscar needs you now as much as ever."

Robbie nodded, breathing steadily at last. His mind began already to whir with what he must to- contact Constance, if he could, enquire about visits and letters and suchlike.

As if he could sense the thoughts already totting themselves into neat, organised lists in Robbie's brain, Aziraphale smiled again.  
"Save your thoughts tonight, though, do." From somewhere, he produced two glasses and a bottle of wine. "Tonight, we will remember better times past."

Robbie took a glass, feeling suprisingly warmed and far, far calmer than he had been for months. 

"Thank you."

"Nonsense, dear boy, what are friends for?" And if, for a moment, Aziraphale's eyes appeared a little distant, as if remembering someone other drinking partner, some other shared drink over a joy or a grief, Robbie didn't mention it and the moment passed as quickly as the sound of two glasses, clinking together in toast. 

"To absent friends."

"To absent friends."


End file.
